


Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things

by SelkieWife



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire Series, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Character Death Mentioned, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, Past physical abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shame, Survivor Guilt, past emotional abuse, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 12:31:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11555262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelkieWife/pseuds/SelkieWife
Summary: Prompt: Theon meeting Jon again in season 7 (prediction)I struggled with this fic because I was trying to predict what I thought would actually happen on the show and balance that with what I actually wanted to have happen (hence the Bran stuff.) As a result, I'm not sure if any of it makes sense and I hope it's okay and that you like it!





	Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things

**Theon**  


He felt Jon’s presence before he saw him, like a punch to the heart. As Theon pulled the boat ashore with Harrag and his sister’s men, his mind flooded with turmoil and he swallowed thickly, fighting the urge to throw himself at Jon’s feet and offer his head as just punishment for his crimes. He began to tremble, his crippling guilt clashing strongly with his need to rescue his sister.  


_Yara…._ The thought of Yara had kept him from giving himself up to Jon when he left Sansa with Brienne and Podrick. And now it seemed she was delaying his death a second time.  


Theon’s tormented eyes focused on the stoic form of the bastard standing grim and unmoving further up the beach. Even from this distance he could see how much Jon had changed from the sullen, summer child he had been. Jon had always been insufferably moody, but there had been a kindness behind his frowns, whereas Theon’s japes and smiles had been cruel, twisted things. He stood before Jon now, a proven traitor and coward. A broken man.  


A heavy wave of shame washed over him, but he couldn’t lower his gaze. He _wouldn’t_ lower his head, not even when Jon began a slow walk toward him. He couldn’t shame Yara and her men like that. He’d betrayed everyone he’d ever loved but, he could _not_ betray her now.  


“Jon.” He paused. He had to choose his words carefully. “Your Grace,” he tried to recapture the boldness of his voice at the Kingsmoot but he could hear his voice faltering and it felt like he was being choked. “There is much to say… but we are here in urgent need to speak with Queen Daenerys.”  


“There is nothing to say, Greyjoy” Jon interupted, his eyes like dark flames. “If it were not for Sansa you would be dead right now.”  


_I should be dead anyway. One good deed hardly wipes away the bad_. Theon managed to keep his eyes fixed on Jon, even as he clenched his mangled hands at his side. “I know we have unfinished business, Your Grace, and I give you my word that once we have rescued Yara, I will return to your justice. And then you may do with me what you see fit.” It was like wading through mud, trying to negotiate the humble, sorrowful words with the stance of an Ironborn leader. Especially when leading was the furthest thing from what he felt capable of doing.  


“And what good would your word be? Would that be the same word you gave Robb before you betrayed him?” His words stung like salt, even if there was truth in it. _Especially_ because there was truth in it. This was the worst possible timing. Every moment Yara spent in the clutches of his Uncle Euron was a moment closer to her death or worse. Theon knew well that death was not the worst thing that could happen. He had spoken truthfully to Jon, it didn’t matter whether he was believed or not. He needed to meet with Daenerys now. He took a few steps forward, his gait still slightly unsure due to the missing toes. And in a moment Jon was on him.  


His strong hands were clutching him in a violent frenzy as he went limp under Jon’s fierce grasp. He didn’t fight it. Jon was shouting something at him but there was a pounding pressure in his head and his ears were buzzing. He heard bits and pieces, as if from very far away or as if his head was being held underwater and he was drowning.

 _It wasn’t me, it was the Turncloak. He was a bad man, he betrayed his brother, murdered children…_ There was a pause in the shouting that allowed Theon to come back to himself and suddenly Jon’s scorching eyes were boring into his again as if he were expecting him to say something.  


He raised his mournful eyes to Jon’s. “Please,” he managed to whisper. “My sister.”  


Jon’s grip loosened a bit and his eyes grew wide. “What of my brother? What of Robb?” There was no more anger anymore, just quiet, horrible grief. “Where were you when he died?”  


_Where was I? Where was I?_  


“Winterfell,” Theon admitted with a gasp and bent his head. “I should have been with him.” He raised his haunted eyes to Jon’s once more. _“I should have died with him.”_ Jon suddenly released his grip, turned, and stormed up the beach.  


**Jon**  


“I’m proud of you for the way you’ve been treating Theon,” Sansa had said, looking every inch like Lady Catelyn, the only difference being the kindness in her eyes when she looked at him. The kindness he had craved all of his life.  


He didn’t deserve her praise. He had wanted to kill him desperately, when he had first seen him on the beach in Dragonstone and even now that he was back here in Winterfell, after his failed attempt to rescue his sister, to offer Ironborn men to go with him beyond the Wall. Jon would accept his men. He would be a fool not to. But he could never bring himself to forgive him, even if Sansa already had.  


How could he forgive Theon? It would be forgiving the betrayal of Robb. It would be forgiving the killing of children. It would be forgiving abandoning Robb to die alone. It would be forgiving the failure to die by his side. It would be forgiving all of the things he could not forgive _himself_ for.  


He knew it the moment he clutched him on the beach and heard him say those words, _I should have died with him…_ The same reproachful words that were so often lurking in the crevices of his own mind. The same words he had repeated to himself time and time again. Facing Theon had shown him that no matter how many people thought well of him, he was nothing but a craven. Jon could face a million white walkers but he couldn’t face the mirrored image of his own black deeds in Theon’s haunted face.  


He shivered as he walked the grounds of Winterfell in the dark. It was almost dawn but Jon had been unable to sleep. He never truly slept well to begin with but now with the coming mission to the north and the arrival of Theon, sleep had become impossible, even with the comforting presence of Ghost curled up next to him. 

He thought to seek some solace in the Godswood. He’d been going there more and more often- whenever he could in fact. He felt close to his family there. He felt close to Bran. He couldn’t explain it but sometimes he felt as if it were Bran’s eyes staring out at him from carved face of the Heart Tree. He noticed that Sansa also seemed to be coming to the Godswood more often, even though she had always aligned herself with Lady Catelyn’s Faith of the Seven.  


Dawn was just beginning to creep through the white arms of the trees and Jon felt relief wash over him as he entered the Godswood- until he saw Theon there, crouched by The Heart Tree as if he were waiting for him. Theon looked up at him with his tormented eyes and rose with shaky determination. As he walked toward him, Jon realized that he looked even worse than he had seen him on the beach at Dragonstone. His face was haggard, his eyes staring right through him. He stopped in front of Jon, released a ragged breath, and went down on his knees in front of him, exposing his neck.

It took Jon a moment before he realized what Theon was doing, and when he put it together, he did not feel vindicated. He felt _ill_ and… guilty somehow. He knelt down and slipped his gloved hands over Theon’s shoulders. “What are you doing out here, Theon?” He asked gently.

At the sound of his name, Theon’s head shot up with a look Jon couldn’t quite describe and the ghost of a smile appeared at his lips. “Yes… Yes, let me die now. Please. Please, Jon. I’m ready to die for my crimes.”

So what Theon had said on the beach had been true. He was giving himself up to him. “Theon, I can’t kill you. I couldn’t take your head now, even if…” _even if I wanted to_ were the words he’d almost said. He was shocked to realize that the unsaid words were true. As he looked at this tormented man kneeling before him, the last thing he felt was vengeance. Theon flinched under his strong grip as Jon pulled him to standing. Jon then crossed behind Theon and moved closer to the tree. He searched for Bran’s face but all he saw were streams of red sap looking like blood spilling onto white snow… like Ygritte’s blood… like his own… the carved face mirroring the horror on Olly’s face as his neck snapped in the noose. Jon shuddered and looked away. Behind him, he heard Theon’s thin voice. “But I deserve to die Jon.”  


“Well, it seems people don’t get what they deserve in this life,” Jon said a bit more harshly then he meant. “Do you think Father deserved to die or Robb or your sister? Or Rickon or Bran?” He saw Theon cringe as he spoke each name, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. But at the mention of Bran, Theon began to tremble and fixed those harrowing eyes on Jon again as he whispered, “Bran lives. He’s _here_.”  


Jon felt a cold chill travel down his spine as the wind picked up and the Heart Tree began shaking it’s red leaves like bloody hands. “He’s here in the Godswood,” Theon continued, “He’s been speaking to me this morning… I asked him if he would let me die,” Jon opened his mouth to say something but no words came as the leaves continued shaking with more force now. Some of the leaves were encased in the ice from the recent storm and as they shook, the ice fell upon the frozen black pool sounding like shattering glass.  


Jon turned to Theon, whose facial scars were now bright red against the whiteness of his skin and hair, making him resemble The Heart Tree more than ever as he stood with that unnerving disembodied stare of his. He was looking beyond Jon now- at something behind him. The Heart Tree. He watched in horror as Theon nodded slowly as if giving permission to someone or something. Then in an instant, his eyes went white and he crashed to the ground convulsing. Jon was on him in a moment gathering his frail form into his arms.  


**Theon**  


He was still in the Godswood but everything was still, quiet. As Theon blinked, his eyes focused on the the calm implacable face of Bran, standing tall before him. _Standing_. Theon scrambled to his feet, looking at Bran with reverence. There was nothing of the small, gentle boy there now, just as there was nothing left of the cocksure youth Theon had been. 

Bran had grown taller than Theon, and in the middle of his forehead was a gleaming eye. It sent a shiver down Theon’s spine. He felt like that third eye could pierce through him like a knife, flaying away every despicable part of him and still finding him wanting. He needed to apologize, to beg forgiveness, but his mouth was dry and gaping, like when he screamed soundlessly in a nightmare.

“Where are we?” He managed to ask at last. 

Bran smiled, almost sadly, and said, “In your mind… Thank you for letting me in, by the way. Are _they_ always here?” 

Theon followed Bran’s gaze to the two ragged boys, huddled together beside the Heart Tree. The two orphans he had murdered in place of Bran and Rickon. Yes, the two boys were always there. They were there when he bedded down at night and when he rose at dawn. They were there in the feverish space between awake and dreaming and in the screams and cries of war. They were there, relentlessly there, between the vastness of what was and what might have been. Theon nodded and whispered, “The farm boys. Always.”

Bran’s third eye flashed as he looked at Theon. “They had names,” he said with a bitter edge that clashed with his calm demeanor. “Jack and Billy and they were my friends. _You must remember their names_. _”_ Theon felt pain more searing than the kiss of the flaying knife coiling around his heart at Bran’s words. His soul was rotting with the guilt of it. A wretched, twisted thing. 

Bran looked more like the young boy he use to be now as he walked slowly over to the boys and touched the older one softly on the shoulder. The boy did not react to his touch. “It’s my fault they are dead,” he said quietly. “If I hadn’t escaped…”

“Don’t.” Theon interrupted him harshly and shook his head vigorously. “Don’t do that. Don’t take my crimes on yourself. They are mine, not yours. _My work_.”  


Bran turned his eyes on Theon, and for one awful moment he looked just like he did that day when he had asked him, _Did you hate us the whole time?_

_No. I never did. I never hated any of you. I loved you. I loved you all so much. I still do. After everything I’ve done, I still do._

“I know,” Bran answered Theon’s thoughts. Theon looked up at him confused until he realized that Bran was in his head. He didn’t need to speak the words aloud. He knew his thoughts. Bran came very close to him now, it was almost as if they were sharing one body. “I know that you would take it all back if you could. And, you are not the only one here who is responsible for the deaths of innocents,” he said in a whisper as all of his eyes closed for a moment. 

Theon looked at Bran surprised, but said nothing else. Bran fixed his eyes back on Theon again and Theon suddenly felt weightless, painless, as if he were floating in the salt waves of his childhood or flying through the cold northern air. 

“Bran, why I am here? Am I to die? Am I to be allowed that mercy? Is it _possible_ for me to die?” It didn’t seem as though it was possible for him to die.

“No, Theon,” Bran said, his voice thick with empathy. “I need you alive. I need your help, if you will agree to give it to me. Jon and I, we need your help in the war that is to come.”  


Theon released his breath. How could anyone need his help? He wasn’t noble and strong like Robb. He wasn’t clever and brave like Yara. What possible use could he be to anyone? Why were _they_ dead while he lived? Yara. His sweet sister. She had brought him back from the dead. She had given him a reason to live. She was the best of his family. The best of the Ironborn. How could it even be possible that she had fallen? 

And now. And now, he feared that continuing to live in this hideous world without her would be the harshest punishment he could endure. He supposed he deserved no less than to be the last one standing, watching as all those he loved were taken from him. All the brave and valiant dying precisely _because_ they were brave and valiant. He remembered Sansa’s words. _In life, the monsters win_. He was a monster but he didn’t want to win.

“Why me?” he asked, “How can I be useful in the war to come?”  


“The first step is to go back and reclaim your crown from your Uncle Euron.”  


Theon cringed to hear him say it. “Bran, I am not my sister. I am not fit to rule. You know that, you… you saw it.”

“I did. But you are not the same man you were then. Remember. I’ve seen _all_ of it. All that you went through. And I need your help. You are the only one who I can… _enter_ in this way- where it is not quite warging, not quite skin changing. Where we become like… one. You allow it willingly. And that is good because… I’m still learning and I don’t want to hurt anyone else,” Bran finished with a tremor in his voice.  


Theon nodded, trying to offer comfort, while not completely understanding all that Bran was saying. “I know I can never make amends. I do not seek forgiveness. But I will help you in any way that I can.”

Bran suddenly wrapped his arms around Theon. It felt as though he were encased in feathers, dark and soft. “Don’t do it to repent,” Bran whispered, “No matter what you do or don’t do, the dead are dead, they are not coming back. All you can do now is accept who you are and accept who you are meant to be. What is dead is dead. But you are not. Time to fly.” 

There was the swoop of wind, the flutter of wings and then… nothing.  


                            **************************************************************************

When Theon finally opened his eyes he found himself staring into Jon’s. “Jon… m’lord…. your… Your Grace… I’m sorry. Please…” He tried to scramble to his feet, but Jon kept him firmly in his arms. 

“No… don’t move yet. Gods be good, Theon, had anyone told me yesterday how relieved I’d be to see you come through that alive, I wouldn’t have believed them.”  


Theon stared up at Jon confused. “What… What changed?”

“I was talking to Bran right here in the Godswood… _through you._ The things he told me… But… he’s alive. My brother lives.” The grateful tears that filled Jon’s eyes broke Theon’s heart. “Come lean on me,” Jon said gruffly as he helped Theon rise to his feet. “There is much to say. There is much to plan.”  


As Theon struggled to stand he looked at Jon questioningly, “So you will- you will accept my help? What help I can give? In spite of what I did? In spite of..." Theon took a breath. "In spite of what I did to _Robb_." It was still almost impossible to speak his name after all this time. Speaking Robb's name aloud made Theon feel as though he was shattering.

Jon stopped and looked at Theon mournfully. “Theon, I don’t know why Robb is dead and we live. But we do live. For better or worse, we are the ones left. I do not think he would have wanted us to be enemies. We owe it to Robb to join together without malice. I believe it is what he would have wanted. We owe it to the dead and the living to do whatever we can in this coming war. For centuries, before we warred each other, our family’s fought together against their common enemy. Despite their differences. Together. We need to do the same if we are going to survive. Because the enemy is real, it’s always been real.”

Theon closed the space between Jon and himself when he clasped his arm in his. “Will you accept the promise of an oathbreaker?” Theon asked, as he raised his searing eyes to Jon’s.

“I’m an oathbreaker too Theon, so I’d need to ask you the same,” Jon replied with a bitter smile.   


Theon nodded as his chest clenched with emotion. They spoke the words together. Two Kings, reluctant to rule. Two brothers bound together through tragedy and shared experience. Two boys who didn’t know why they had been chosen over those who were more worthy. 

_“My sword is yours in victory and defeat  
from this day until my last day.”_

Theon felt his whole body tremble as he spoke the words, the oath he had broken to Robb. Jon began to take his arm away but Theon gripped it forcefully as tears spilled over his scarred face. “My life is yours,” he promised aggressively, “Now and Always.”

Jon nodded solemnly “Now and Always,” he promised back. 

They walked back to Winterfell leaning on each other through the biting winter winds and great drifts of falling snow. 


End file.
